


Friendship is Still a Thing

by Chocchi



Series: Recovery Process [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocchi/pseuds/Chocchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We speak occasionally?” You say it like a question, because you have no idea what you’re supposed to be saying. Somehow, you don’t think “he’s self-appointed himself as my bodyguard” would fly. “There’s nothing going on between us,” you add, because geez, there isn’t!</p>
<p>(Or, the new kid in school and the boy she befriends.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendship is Still a Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Do not be fooled by the Roxy/Jane tag, Roxy barely managed to dive into the fic last-minute.  
> Dirk and Jane being buddies in a highschool AU, because friendship is still a thing!!  
> I set out to write Roxy/Jane fluff and wound up with this. Somebody explain my brain to me.

Your name is Jane Crocker and dear whoever's up there, when you asked how your first day at Skaia High could possibly get any worse, it was a _rhetorical question_.

You transferred here in the middle of your junior year after a series of unfortunate events at your old school that you would rather not talk about. Your experience at Skaia High thus far has also been an experience you'd rather not talk about. At present, you are being cornered in an alley on your way home by a group of young men you're fairly certain also attend your new school. You are, quite frankly, fed up with all this bullshit, or you would be if you weren't so terrified your palms are sweating and your knees threatening to give out. Which they are. Which would probably be really unfortunate for you, given the circumstances.

The apparent leader of the group steps forward, and your thoughts are so frantic they almost drown out his demand that you relinquish something or other. You mean to tell him he can have just about any goddamn thing he wants if you can just get home without being beaten up or raped or-- but for some reason, against your better judgement, you shake your head instead, already trying to back away. Rough brick scrapes your shoulders through your shirt, and you realize, beginning to panic, that it's a dead end. The boys blocking your only exit sneer and laugh at you, taking leisurely strides forward, and you are out of all options but fighting back or just taking whatever they throw at you. There are five of them and one of you, and you're not sure you could even take on _one_ of them, so fighting is out too.

You squeeze your eyes tightly shut. This is going to hurt.

You can practically feel them breathing on you when suddenly, from the entrance to the alley, a drawling male voice calls, "Now what the fuck is happening over here?"

Your attackers freeze, and you remember that you have vocal cords in time to return a shrill call of "H-help me!"

The would-be muggers flee before he's walked even a yard, but he keeps coming towards you. You take in spiky, slick blond hair and a pair of pointed shades before realizing that you have been rescued by none other than Dirk Strider, something of a legend at Skaia High for reasons that are not yet entirely clear to you. Up close and personal, all you can think is how intimidating someone can be with a neutral face, even when they're not particularly tall. His mouth is moving and you force yourself to listen.

"You alright?"

You try to get your throat to work, to say that yes, you are perfectly fine and you certainly do not need to be fussed over by possibly the most popular boy in the junior class (for some reason, you feel like this would have negative consequences if word made it back to school. You're just not sure which one of you they would apply to). Instead you let out a little squeak of distress. The set of his jaw softens in the most subtle of ways.

"Why don't I walk you home, kid."

You're too out of it to even object to being called a child. You do manage to nod gratefully, and allow him to take you by the elbow and lead you back out onto the main street. You tug your arm back and take the lead, since you're pretty sure he has no idea where you live, or even what your name is, for that matter. For several minutes, you just walk in a sort of tense silence, him trailing just a bit behind you.

Eventually, and to your great surprise, he says, "Crocker, i'nit? Jane Crocker?"

"I, uh, yeah," you manage, wincing at how dry and raspy your throat is. "How'd you know?"

"We have the same physics class," he reminds you, not sounding the least bit put-off or offended or like he's feeling any feelings at all, really. You, however, feel just a little bit stupid. Aren't you just the queen of making good first impressions?

"Yeah, right, sorry," you mumble, keeping your gaze on your shoes.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "Nobody remembers everyone in all of their classes first day. I can't imagine almost gettin' the shit beat outta ya is helpin' yer memory, either."

You laugh, shakily, and shake your head. “Yeah. Yeah.”

You’re quiet again, and you stay that way for the rest of the walk, but it’s a little less awkward and a little more companionable than before. When you finally reach home, he pauses at the foot of your driveway. You give him a tiny smile, and he dips his head in acknowledgement, starts to turn away, then pauses, looks back over his shoulder and says,

“Anyone tries to mess with you again, just tell them you’ve got Dirk Strider on your side. Take care, Crocker.”

And then he strides off, all casual grace and neutral expressions, and you feel maybe just a little bit better about attending Skaia High.

 

The next day, you walk into the cafeteria and are promptly tripped, knees crashing painfully to the floor as everyone within a three-table radius roars with laughter at your misfortune. You flush to your ears, scramble to your feet and hurry to get in line for lunch without a word. Dirk Strider’s protection is nice in theory, but you don’t know how serious he was (you hear he’s big on irony), and besides, how stupid would that sound? “Hey, quit beating up on me, I’m just the dorky new kid but the school cool-guy has my back”?

You retreat from the lunchroom as quickly as possible, styrofoam plate of pizza in hand. You think that maybe if you just sit away from everyone else, and mind your own business, they’ll leave you alone. You find a quiet corner in one of the stairwells and nibble at your pizza distractedly. You’re not very hungry.

After about five minutes, a pair of worn red Chuck Taylors intrudes on your view of the floor, and your head jerks up in panic, eyes wide with fright. Dirk Strider stands over you, face as passive as ever.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

“Not at all,” you mumble, relieved, as he settles down beside you against the wall. He doesn’t bother to strike up a conversation, he simply pulls out a book and begins reading. It doesn’t feel like sitting next to one of the most popular kids in school, it feels like sitting with someone else who can’t find their place, just enjoying a little bit of peace and quiet together. You appreciate the comfort and protection, particularly as you spot the boys from yesterday afternoon further down the hall. They glare at you and mutter amongst themselves, but you’re reasonably confident that with Dirk at your side, you’re untouchable, if just for a little while.

 

“Care to walk home together again, Crocker?”

You stare at the blond, leaning against the lockers a few feet away from you, and try to formulate a response. “I don’t... that is, it’s very nice of you, but you don’t need to--”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t entirely willing,” he interrupts, calmly, and you can’t help vaguely wondering how difficult it must be to constantly obscure your emotions from the rest of the world whenever you glance at him with an expression void of all emotion (which is, actually, every time you glance at him). Regardless, if he says he wants to, who are you to argue? You give him a shy smile, finish sorting through your books, and hoist your backpack onto your back.

“If you insist.”

“Lead the way,” he says, and you do.

(Your father pulls into the driveway as you’re fumbling with your house keys, exchanging a parting wave with your escort, and you’re forced to exaggerate the quantity of homework you’ve received to avoid a surely awkward conversation about “that dashing young fellow with the odd glasses”.)

 

 

The next morning, you sit in your first hour English class, scanning your grammar homework from the previous night with a feeling of defeat (you will _never_ figure this out). The classroom around you is filled with chatter and gossip, as the current infection has put your teacher and apparently most of the district’s substitute teachers in a state of sickness unsuitable for teaching. You aren’t really paying attention to your surroundings. This is probably why you don’t notice the girls who have approached you until one waves a well-manicured hand directly in front of your face. You jolt into focus, and give them an embarrassed smile.

“Hi?”

“Don’t play dumb, Crocker, there’s no way you don’t know what we want,” the one who invaded your space with her hand sniffs. You shrug helplessly and wish you could sink through the floor. The last thing you want right now is a confrontation! “Ugh. You sure move fast, don’t you?”

“ _What?_ ” you say, baffled, and frantically begin going through your brain for anything you’ve said or done in the past two days that could be construed as some form of flirting. You come up blank. The girls crowded around you mutter angrily, shifting their feet. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t--”

“You and Strider, you stupid broad, what the hell is happening there?”

Oh.

“We speak occasionally?” You say it like a question, because you have no idea what you’re _supposed_ to be saying. Somehow, you don’t think “he’s self-appointed himself as my bodyguard” would fly. “There’s nothing going on between us,” you add, because geez, there isn’t!

“He’s walked you home two days in a row,” one of them snarls, and God you just _cannot deal_ with the amount of bullshit you’ve been dealt these past few days. You throw your hands up in disgust.

“Well, gosh, what’re you doing stalking us around like that?” you snark back, before you’ve really thought it through. “We’re friends or something, okay, friends are still a thing.”

They look like they can’t believe you have the _nerve_ to talk to them like that, but they accept it, dispersing throughout the classroom. You swear some of them give you looks like _watch your back_ , which you already do and so it doesn’t concern you nearly as much as the looks of _we’ve got our eyes on you_. You don’t know if you can handle all this negative attention.

Then your mind wanders back to your own words. Friends or... something? Strider has been a right gentleman-- he’s polite, and he’s walked you home voluntarily-- but you’re not sure if you’re really _friends_. You’ve barely said five sentences between the two of you, and you’ve known him for all of two days, but you’re civil with each other and you certainly don’t mind his company. You wonder if he considers you his friend, or decent company, or he just feels obliged to keep the stupid dorky new girl from getting herself beat up. After contemplating this for a moment, you realize that if it bothers you so much, you probably at least _want_ to be his friend.

Being the new kid is hard.

 

At lunch, you go back to the corner of the stairwell again, having taken a lunch from home to avoid the crowds in the school cafeteria. Dirk is already there, absentmindedly eating spaghetti out of a thermos with one hand as the other turns the pages of his book. He inclines his head towards you in recognition when you sit down next to him. You eat half of your sandwich, before asking, as casually as possible, “What are you reading?”

“Twilight,” he says, and after staring at him for thirty seconds and realizing that he is _dead serious_ , you choke down a guffaw of laughter. “What are you even laughing at, wow, way to jump to conclusions, Crocker.”

“Wh-who’s jumping to conclusions?” you manage to wheeze, struggling to straighten out your expression. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Of course not, what do you take me for. It’s a disgrace to literature everywhere.”

“Why are you reading it, then?” you demand, raising both eyebrows in a display that would probably be more effectual if you weren’t grinning like a moron, buck teeth displayed front and center.

“Lalonde bet me fifty dollars I couldn’t stomach reading the entire series,” he informs you. “Striders do not back down from challenges.”

“Evidently,” you snicker, then furrow your brow and ask, a little hesitantly, “Who’s ‘Lalonde’?”

His lips twitch a little, and you can’t tell whether he’s holding back a smile or a scowl. “You’ll know soon enough.”

“Gosh, that’s kind of ominous,” you laugh nervously.

 

He’s waiting for you at your locker again at the end of the day. Neither of you says anything, you just pack your bag and walk out the doors together. You’re wondering if you’d filled his daily talking quota at lunch, when halfway home, your stomach growls loudly. As he glances down at you, and you flush to your ears in embarrassment, you remember that you forgot to eat the other half of your sandwich at lunch. You expect him to either poke fun at you somehow, or just continue walking and ignore it entirely, because what in heaven’s name could have prepared you for

“There’s a pretty good chinese place around the corner. They sell fried rice for two dollars a bowl.”

“That’s two dollars out of your fifty for bleeding at the eyes, are you quite sure you’re ready to make such a sacrifice?” you tease, but you’re already following him across the street.

You wonder why you find it so easy to spend time with this guy.

You have your wallet on you, so he doesn’t have to treat you or take an IOU. You sit at the window by the counter, he once again eating one-handed with most of his attention on his book, you idly swinging your legs as you watch people on the street outside. It’s starting to drizzle outside, which surprises you. It is February, after all, in New England.

“Global warming,” Dirk says, without looking up from his book.

“It’s all going to freeze over by tomorrow, isn’t it,” you sigh.

“And then it’ll snow on top of the ice,” he agrees, turning the page.

 

Another week goes by in this fashion, and gradually, people begin to either distance themselves from you or treat you with a wary sort of respect. You’re not sure how you feel about this, but at this point you’re fairly certain that you and Dirk are something like friends, and you’d rather have him than the entire rest of the school, so you guess it’s not a problem.

You tell him about yourself, and your house, and your poppop and your Dad, and in return you learn little things about him-- that he has a little brother, just seven years old, and the pair of them live with foster parents, that his favorite color is orange, that he knows how to fight with a sword.

Today is Friday, and he walks you home like he has for the past week and a half, except this time, as he steps off the front porch and you reach for the doorknob, the door swings open, and you shriek. Your father chuckles.

“Welcome home, Janey,” he says warmly, then, in a voice full of faked surprise, adds, “Well, well, who’s this?”

“ _Dad_ ,” you groan, shifting uncomfortably and giving Dirk a look full of _run while you still can_. He doesn’t. “He’s, um, my friend--”

“Dirk Strider,” he interrupts, smooth as silk. He offers your father his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr... Crocker?”

“And you, Mr.Strider,” Dad laughs, easily, shaking the proffered hand. “I suppose you’re the young gentleman who’s been walking my daughter home safe from school?”

“Yes, sir,” Dirk says, his face still neutral even as you bury yours in your hands.

“I’m very grateful, then,” Dad says, sincerely, and peeking through your fingers you can see Dirk’s eyebrows raise in surprise. _Why Dad why_. “Do you live very far away, young man?”

“Just a couple blocks down,” Dirk gestures vaguely down the street. “I’m hardly going out of my way.”

“Nonetheless,” your father says, and you watch with a growing sense of dread as he gets that mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “You have my gratitude. Why don’t you stop by for dinner sometime? Say, tomorrow?”

Your hands drop out of sheer shock as you gape at him. Dirk, unfazed, only shrugs.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he says, and oh God you hope he doesn’t feel obligated to do this, “I’ll have to check with my guardians.”

“Fine, that’s fine,” your father assures him. “I look forward to it.”

“Likewise.” Dirk turns to you, and slips you a small, folded sheet of paper. “See you, Crocker.”

“Bye,” you squeak, too mortified to say anything else, and he just casually strides off to finish his journey home. Dad peers over your shoulder, grinning like a madman.

“Why, Janey, is that a love note I see?”

“Gosh, Dad, no it’s not, I can’t believe you embarrassed me like that, I’m going up to my room!” you huff, pushing him aside so you can run into the house and up the stairs and lock your bedroom door behind you. Dropping your backpack to the floor, you flop onto your bed and unfold the note.

_Crocker-- if I’m ever absent from school for some reason, or you need to talk outside of school, contact me on Pesterchum. If you don’t have one, get one now._

_timaeusTestified_

Okay, cool, now you can talk to him whenever you want to.

Now you can talk to _Dirk Strider_ whenever you want to. There are probably girls who would kill for this privledge.

You feel like this should be a bigger deal to you than it is. It isn’t.

You suppose you might, in fact, be friends with Dirk Strider.

 

gutsyGumshoe [GG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

GG: Strider? Is this you?

TT: This is, in fact, Dirk Strider.

TT: And would I be correct in the assumption that you happen to be Jane Crocker?

GG: Indeed you would be!

TT: Good to know.

TT: My foster parents are thrilled to hear I will be visiting the house of a pretty young lady to dine tomorrow evening, by the way.

GG: Oh dagnabbit.

GG: You don’t have to do this, Strider.

GG: I know my Dad kind of cornered you into that one, but you’re not going to hurt my feelings or anything if you don’t come over, okay?

TT: As a matter of fact, I am looking forward to my visit.

TT: To be quite frank,

TT: I am getting really sick of all this take-out.

TT: I could use a good home-cooked meal.

GG: Oh, dear.

GG: Well, if you insist!

TT: I do.

TT: Anyway, was there something you wanted to discuss with me?

GG: Um... no, not really!

GG: I simply wanted to check that the handle you gave me was correct, I suppose.

TT: As though I would give you a false one.

TT: Or forget my own handle, for that matter.

GG: It is always worth double-checking!

TT: Sure thing, Crocker.

GG: Are you being fresh with me, Mr.Strider? :B

TT: Fresher than a motherfucking brand-new coat of paint.

TT: And not to abandon you,

TT: But if that’s everything, I promised my brother I would take him somewhere “fun” tonight.

GG: How perfectly sweet of you!

TT: Naturally. 

TT: I am frequently likened to Mother Theresa for my generous and compassionate personality.

GG: Oh, stop it.

GG: Just go play with your brother!

TT: Will do.

TT: See you tomorrow, Crocker.

GG: And you, Strider!

gutsyGumshoe [GG] ceased pestering  timaeusTestified [TT]

Dirk shows up early for dinner-- Dad isn’t nearly done cooking yet-- so you both retreat to your room before awkward parental shenanigans can occur.

You’re just kind of spinning absentmindedly in your computer chair, talking at him, as he lays sprawled out across your bed, doing something or other on his cellphone and occasionally providing commentary. After a while, you hit a pause in the conversation, and a companionable silence settles over the room. You listen to the faint clicking of his phone’s keyboard for a while, and although you idly wonder who he’s texting with such interest, you respect his privacy and remain silent. You’re pretty much spacing out when he suddenly drops the phone onto your pillow and rolls over to face you.

“It has occurred to me, recently,” he starts, sounding a little, for once, like he’s not entirely sure how to say what he’s saying. “That my... approaches towards you could be construed in a different way than they were meant.”

Your stomach drops unpleasantly. _Friends_ , you are _friends_ with Dirk Strider and nothing more and oh God this is probably going to be awkward as hell, you can just _tell_ because the other way his “approaches” could be construed is--

You both open your mouth to speak at the same time, then shut them in unison. Dirk gestures to you, and you cough sheepishly, a sort of flush rising to your cheeks.

“I, um!” you say, very eloquently. “If-- if you were going to say what I think you were, then. Um. I’m going to have to apologize because I don’t see you that way!”

He doesn’t look incredibly heartbroken, but his face isn’t quite as deadpan as it is sometimes. He looks... a little thoughtful? And maybe a little _amused?_ “Don’t you? Why not?”

“I... oh, gosh,” you’re _definitely_ blushing now. “You’re a really great guy and all, you’re very nice and I _guess_ you’re probably kind of attractive, but I. Um. I don’t really like... what I’m trying to say is, uh...”

“Spit it out, Crocker.”

“I like girls,” you finally blurt out, tugging your knees up to your chest so you’re kind of curled up in your chair, watching him for his reaction anxiously. “As in... I _like_ girls.”

“Huh,” he says, and fuck him he _is_ amused. Why is he amused. “That’s kind of funny.”

“Why is it funny, Strider?” you demand, holding your knees to your chest more tightly. _Please don’t be homophobic please don’t be homophobic please don’t be homophobic please don’t be--_

“It’s just that I’ve never really cared for them much, myself,” he says, just so goddamn casual, and you can’t help it. Your breath _whooshes_ out of your gut in one big sigh of relief, and then you’re laughing, almost falling out of your chair with mirth, and he laughs with you until you’re both gasping for air and clutching your guts in pain, but _still_ laughing. That wasn’t any less awkward than any other time you’ve ever had to come out, but this is so much _better_ than the responses you’ve gotten in the past, almost as awkward as the confession or sometimes packed with threats. You don’t even _know_ what feelings you’re feeling right now, but you’re pretty sure happiness is one of them, and looking at the pokerface lying in pieces around Dirk’s feet as he grins back at you, you think that it’s pretty fucking nice to be friends with Dirk Strider.

Dad is a little confused when neither of you can stop snickering at the dinner table.

 

“Lalonde is back from vacation,” Dirk tells you, indifferently, as he walks you home from school on the following Monday afternoon.

“How exciting!” you laugh, shifting your backpack so all the weight isn’t on one shoulder. “It will be nice to meet your mystery friend, after all the interesting, cryptic things you’ve said about them.”

“You’ll like ‘em,” he assures you, then snorts. “I just don’t know which one of you to give the shotgun talk.”

“Wait, what?”

 

(You meet Roxy Lalonde on Tuesday, February 14th, amidst a plethora of pink, red and white streamers, lacy paper hearts, and all other manner of overdone Valentine’s Day decorations. Dirk collects his fifty dollars from her, then introduces the two of you. She gives you the most flirtatious, perfect smile you have ever seen in your life, and kisses your hand. Suddenly, you believe in love at first sight.

Dirk takes one look at your face and gives a candid “told you so,” and even as you are busy simultaneously hitting him over the head with your physics textbook and falling head over heels in love with his best friend, you are glad to be his friend.)

**Author's Note:**

> While I was writing this, at one point I misspelled "surprise" as "surpise" and my autocorrect said "did you mean to type airport?!"  
> Concrit would be greatly appreciated guys!  
> (Also, if anyone knows what to type to get the colors in the Pesterlog to stay colored, please tell me, thanks, yeah I'm bad at this.)


End file.
